Nobody Does It Better
by Eloise
Summary: Lilah takes a gamble...


**TITLE:**  Nobody Does it Better

**AUTHOR:**  Eloise 

**RATING:** R-ish

**DISCLAIMER:** Joss and ME own Wes, Lilah and all things Angel. I'm only playing with them. I promise not to hurt them. I also don't own James Bond. I wish I did.

**SPOILERS:** Season 4 

**NOTES:** Written as a thankyou /get well present for KJ, she of the wonderful banners and websites. To thank her especially for hosting my stuff at the Gray Zone. She asked for Wes/Lilah or Wes/Faith. With happy Wes. It was a struggle, but I think he's reasonably happy here. Okay, it's not angsty, anyway. Huge thanks as always to my lovely Beta girl Lonely Brit.

**Nobody Does It Better**

She accepted the package with the imperiousness of one grown accustomed to power. Never impolite; she was much too aware of the importance of preserving alliances, stroking egos. You never knew who you might meet on the climb up, or, if you were really unlucky, on the freefall down. 

No, she was politesse personified, thanking the delivery boy graciously, slipping him a twenty and a smile that attested to the quality of Wolfram and Hart's Health and Dental package. She closed the apartment door and carried the parcel over to the kitchen counter, setting it down next to the Minton china she had received this morning before work. Very tasteful, she had to admit; the thin bands of dark blue and gold circling the plain white porcelain with an understated elegance that the English did so well. And such a nice dark blue, she mused. It had recently become one of her favourite colours.

She lifted the sabbatier knife she'd been using to slice the Loch Fyne smoked salmon, and rinsed it carefully, before drying it and sliding it along the gummed edge of the package. No sense in ruining a rather expensive French manicure (which ironically lent her nails an unpolished look) to save a few seconds in preparation. And she was prepared. He'd be proud of the preparation she'd put into this little project. He better be.

She removed the contents from the bubble wrap carefully and set them on the counter. The four items contained within were detailed on the invoice, which she was well aware came to a total in excess of fifty dollars. For basically a bag of coffee, and jars of honey, jam and marmalade. But it would be worth it. 

She'd had incredible fun actually sourcing the products, and Fortnum's online were notoriously unreliable, but she had been very clear about what she wanted. The coffee had to be strong, dark and their Café Superb was the only practical choice. The honey had been more of a problem. The Norwegian Heather variety was no longer available, so she had settled for another heather variety, produced in the Dorset Heathlands. The Tiptree's Little Scarlet and Cooper's Vintage Oxford Marmalade were much easier to find, with all those ex-pat gourmet websites out there. You could almost smell the marmite and fish paste. A nation of masochists, no doubt about it. How else could you describe a people who listed spotted dick as a dessert choice, rather than a distressing physical affliction. And toad in the hole? She barely managed to repress a shudder at the thought.

She knew she was taking a risk, ordering the morning after items when the night before was not yet ensured. It was hard to narrow it down, but if there was one thing she prided herself on, it was her ability to gamble. So many people thought it was down to luck, fate, will of the gods, the Powers that Be, the Senior Partners. She knew better. It was a skill, one you could learn, just like a language, or a mathematical equation. You just had to be observant, aware; watching your subject and waiting for the perfect opportunity. You had to learn to read the signs. And recently the signs had been flashing in neon above his head. 

She opened the refrigerator and checked on the supper she had prepared. To be honest, it hadn't involved much culinary preparation, though she could cook gourmet when the occasion demanded; one of the many little secrets she still kept from him. But tonight she was serving thinly sliced smoked salmon and Beluga caviar, with plenty of toast points. A bottle of Stolichnaya was chilling in the door compartment; she had almost gone with the Kummel Wolfschmidt, until she realized that she was never going to find a bottle of the pre-war stuff. And she'd spent enough on this evening already. The Cliquot chilled next to the vodka, but she had decided against offering Benzedrine powder as an accompaniment to the champagne.  Amphetamines, she was fairly sure, would be redundant this evening.

She closed the door and moved into the bedroom, surveying the scene with satisfaction. She had removed the comforter from her bed, leaving only a thin Egyptian cotton sheet. That would be useful, provided they got as far as the bedroom. She retrieved her outfit from the closet, a heavy cream shantung silk shirt, and a demure charcoal gray pencil skirt, much longer then she normally favoured, but she was a purist. As he undoubtedly was. The finishing touches were a discreet Cartier watch with a fine black leather strap, and a thin ribbon of black velvet, which she tied carefully in a neat bow around her neck. Not to be obvious, or anything.

She reapplied the natural coloured lip stick and dusted the barest whisper of ballerina pink face powder over her unembellished features. It was strange to see herself this way, the soft glow from her dressing table lent her features a strangely unfocused quality, as if she were an artist's study in light and shade. She finished with the Balmain Vent Vent; dabbing at her pulse points till the clean scent of orange blossom and citrus clouded the air. Underneath she could smell lily of the valley and a hint of sage, reminding her strongly of her mother. A less complex scent than she preferred, but classical nonetheless. She ran her fingers through her hair, leaving it loose on her shoulders.

There was a knock at her door.

He had access to her building, but not to her apartment, of course. Only she had access to her apartment. She gave herself a final approving glance in the mirror and headed onstage.

*~*~*~*

He was dressed just as she'd planned; the extremely well-cut navy serge suit fitted his tall frame perfectly, the single-breasted jacket emphasizing his lean torso. He was wearing the dark blue knitted silk tie she'd given him last week, on the proviso that he wear it on their next date. Which she had known would be tonight. 

If she was being pedantic, she would have preferred his shirt to be white, instead of the soft blue grey oxford he wore, but that was a minor quibble. There was no way Wesley would have allowed her to dress him. Not without his suspicions being aroused. Besides, this one did bring out the storm cloud grey in his eyes, which usually signified his displeasure. One of her favourite emotions.

The one that he was currently displaying.

'I thought we were supposed to be going to the opera.' He was surveying her outfit with ill concealed disappointment. 'You could at least try to fake the effort, Lilah.' Leaned on her name a little, with just a hint of menace, and she felt a flick of flame curl in the pit of her stomach. 

'I changed my mind. Thought we might have a quiet night in.' She lowered her eyelashes in a mockery of modesty, and he gave her that little upside down smile, his eyebrows quirking upwards.

'Oh, yes, because we have so many of those.' He came in, though, and she closed the door carefully behind him before answering his comment.

'Well, okay, perhaps quiet was the wrong word.' 

'That would be an understatement. I doubt anyone could ever accuse you of being quiet, Miss Morgan.'

And already he was Miss Morgan-ing her. She controlled the delicious shiver that wanted to run down her spine, and swayed into the kitchen, aware of his eyes on her as she moved. She stopped at the refrigerator, and bent over at the waist intentionally, busying herself with the retrieval of their supper, affording him a pleasant view of her demurely clad behind. She was rewarded with a minute hitch in his breathing as he tried to control his reaction to her blatant invitation. She gathered the items quickly and placed them on a tray. 

'Hm.' There was a note of enquiry in his murmur. 'Your supper choice is rather eclectic.' 

She smiled serenely, internally noting that the penny hadn't dropped yet. For one with such a big brain, Wesley could be incredibly dense sometimes. She poured the ice cold vodka into heavy uncut crystal tumblers, and handed him one, resisting the urge to sprinkle a few grains of black pepper into the clear oily liquid. That would be too obvious. 

Wesley took a mouthful of vodka and rolled it in his mouth, clearly savouring the spirit. He had removed his jacket and loosened his tie, and was now sprawled on the couch with a loose limbed confidence that lent him an air of unfeigned elegance. Made her want to plant herself firmly on top of those agile hips and nibble his earlobe, nipping at the tender flesh until he bit back hard, his vodka-numbed lips chill against her collar bone.  She slid down into the couch next to him and dipped her finger into her drink, brought it to her lips with deliberate slowness, then slipped it inside and sucked. The vodka was so dry it almost evaporated on contact with the heat of her mouth. 

Wesley was watching her, a mixture of wry half-amusement and desire in his dark eyes. Now aware that she was playing him.

'Very impressive. But rather blatant, don't you think, Lilah?' He removed her finger and placed his hand around hers, brought it down to her lap, slapping the back of her hand lightly. The flame in the pit of her stomach flared a little. She pulled her hand away from his in a mock sulk, and found the VCR control. Wesley chuckled and helped himself to a spoonful of caviar on toast. 

'What little video nasty have you picked out for tonight?' 

Wesley had shown little interest in any of the special interest videos she'd purchased, in her attempts to find out what pushed his buttons. It had been purely by chance, one evening after some rather vicious squabbling, and some equally vicious sex, that she had stumbled upon his kink of choice. He had been stretched out on his worn leather couch, flicking idly through the channels while she hunted his apartment for her bra and pants, which had been carelessly discarded somewhere between the living area and bedroom.

As soon as she heard the music, she remembered. That awful video tape, the one that Angel had used to trick them, to steal the money from the homeless shelter benefit. At the time she'd been almost physically sick with nerves, and to be honest she hadn't paid much attention to the skinny Englishman who had performed an unwitting striptease for some of L.A.'s more well-heeled citizens. She had spent several hours in File and Records, searching for a copy of the tape. She had watched it with growing glee, knowing it was the perfect weapon, knowing it would get her exactly what she wanted. And she was never one to do things by half measures. She had spent the better part of two weeks setting up this evening.

She pressed play. The tape whirred and the screen flickered briefly, then the image of a fresh-faced and bespectacled Wesley appeared on the television. Dancing like, well, an idiot. An idiot who possessed all the sense of rhythm and poise of a schoolboy. And then the revelation.

'Pryce. Wesley Wyndam-Pryce.' In his best Connery accent. 

She glanced over at him, and his face was tight, unreadable. This had to be torture for him, she knew, and a sudden insane desire to giggle threatened to overwhelm her. As the striptease progressed she almost felt sorry for him, but she let the tape run its course, right through to the clumsy trip over his pants in his rush to turn the camera off as a door opened in the office. 

She pressed stop.

The man beside her was perfectly still, his limbs still spread on the comfortable couch, but no longer loose. There was tension in every part of his body, his lips pressed firmly together, a muscle jumping under the stubble of his cheek. He looked over at her, his eyes dark; and for one instant, one tiny moment, she doubted herself. He was too angry, she had gone too far this time, Lilah; he would get up from the couch and stalk out of her apartment and she would not see him again, and it was strange how that thought made her feel, because she didn't feel at all, no, this was not about feelings, never had been, never would be, feelings didn't enter into it, not one little bit.

'You think you're very clever, don't you?' And she was. Very. Clever. Indeed. There was a cruel twist to his lips as he reached over and grabbed her wrists firmly, holding her in place beside him. She squirmed obligingly.

'And I do appreciate the effort you've put into this evening.' 

He let go of one of her wrists and reached up to untie the velvet bow around her neck. Then suddenly jerked her other arm hard, sending her sprawling across his lap, and in one smooth move pushed her skirt up over her hips. She made a token effort to free herself, and was pleased to discover that she was held fast, one hand pressing down in the small of her back, the other poised to strike.

'Now then, Miss Morgan. It seems to me someone deserves a spanking…' he aspirated the sibilants in a perfect imitation of Connery, and she sighed in slightly pained satisfaction as his hand fell. 

Nobody does it better…


End file.
